Bouncing back is dramatic, and also a good candidate for cinematic. Bouncing back is megalomania, bouncing back is refusal to quit, bouncing back is getting back up after you’ve been knocked down by a rabid Tyson – someone you would hardly expect to be standing right outside your room. But bouncing back is not easy, especially when you’re recovering from losing your life’s work in a matter of twenty minutes.
I was left wandering aimlessly in the corridors of the heartbroken’s hell: the only thing missing was a beard but that’s not my fault, it simply refused to grow. One of the very, very few things I’ve ever put all my faith in – and money when I get it – is my writing. And I had embarked on the command of a dream to write a grandiose book, a book of comedies and tragedies. It was the kind of book that had me turn a deaf ear towards anyone who had anything bad to say about it. But my stupid and jealous laptop couldn’t stand it all and decided to crash. You’ve probably read about it before in one of my earlier posts.
But I must say there’s nothing like getting back up on your feet. You just have to learn to take it all in your stride, as though it was a sign. I’m a man of science, but since science had failed me (esp. the science of my laptop’s cooling system), I turned to the paranormal. I delighted in them, I abounded in their eccentricities! I made up a story I forced myself to believe, and now, I’m back. Oh, it feels so good to be back.
But ideas don’t seem to be flowing oh-so-easily-again. I’ve spent the past few days writing three proposals, all of them impeccably formal (yes, that’s a complaint), and now, it’s gotten into my language as well. Formality is to me as the British accent is to my ex-girlfriend: you spend too much time with it, it refuses to wear off later on. I need some glasnost going on, and so, I need to blog. I’d begun to write about political correctness yesterday, but since I wasn’t writing on my beloved Samsung keyboard, I kept stumbling into typo after typo. And believe me when I tell you I don’t like typos. They’re irritating. It’s like my fingers can’t read my thoughts. The first paragraph seems so perfect, and you expect the perfection to perpetuate. But no! Stupid typo! It rapes the perfection, it drains the flow. When I write, I like to be polished. Even if I were to jot down abuse, it would have to be sans any a spelling error. It has to have grammatic parallelism. It has to have commas at the right places. And ellipses irritate me. Those three dots seem to represent some kind of undecidedness on the writer’s art, as though he or she were not in a position to express something they could otherwise easily have. Then don’t write it!
But I know I sound like some terrorist hijacking the English language. Old habits die hard, you know. It’s hard to let go. I’m a man with a vintage taste. Most of my friends would like to head down to the club, dance around, have a couple of beers and talk about football matches their fav. teams lost the week before. Me, I like to sit by the fireplace, enjoy some black tea, watch ‘LoTR’, and listen to ACDC once the movie is done. I like the silence, I like the calm, I like the laid back.
The hard part is not be ashamed of it. I’m 20, and I’ve pretty much decided what to do with my life – these decisions I’m very proud of just because I made them. But I’ve never made my peace with the decision of liking the laid-back. There is a feeble yearning that desperately begs me to surface, but I refuse because I find the roaring fireplace more appealing. I guess it runs in my blood – from dad.
In fact, let me tell you, I read a lot of Archer. Reading about his descriptions of large common-rooms in the Oxfords and Cambridges of the world, I had a secret wish to have such and such a room built – one fine day, of course – and host a literary meeting. Just some men gathered to discuss Leftism, Castro, the economic recession, smoke a bit of pipe, grab some black tea, lay back, and enjoy the weather. Yes, the weather.
Ah, well, all that seems verily distant to me. A long time to go for that, but I for one know those dreams won’t die out. See, I think there are two kinds of dreams in this world. One will always have to do with minting money like a machine, but the other will have to be about seemingly trivial things, but the things you find the greatest hapiness with. I have a friend who dreams of making it big with the money, just like everyone does, with one dream. With the other, he plans to become a philanthropist along the lines of Bono and Geldof.
I think I’ve written enough. The writer’s block is down, and I’ll get cracking from tomorrow (I like the feeling of how some bizarre and innovative strike you only if you take a break from all that you’ve been writing!). Oh yeah, also check out this link: HARO. It’s an entrepreneurial venture by media man and adventurist Peter Shankman. It’s something I do when I’m bored, and the idea behind it is pretty good as well.
Cheers!
(And “GO WORDPRESS!” for their new theme ‘Vigilance’ – it’s awesome!)
Clathration Therapy 